He fell silent, and Kalila swallowed past the painful lump of emotion in her throat. ‘I know,’ she whispered.
‘I say this now,’ Bahir continued in a brisker voice, ‘because I am concerned. I did not expect King Zakari to leave you so unattended. I hoped that perhaps you might, if not fall in love with him, then at least have some affection for him before the wedding.’
Kalila tried to smile, and almost managed it. ‘That’s not quite possible,’ she said and Bahir frowned.
‘Of course, royal duties are important, sacred. King Zakari must put his country first.’ He paused, and Kalila heard—felt—the unspoken yet.
And yet. And yet, if Zakari had greeted her in Zaraq instead of Aarif. And yet, if he’d been here when they’d arrived. If he’d even spoken to her…
Would it have kept her from falling in love with Aarif? A few days ago, a week at most, she’d thought she could fall in love with Aarif. The possibility, the wonderful maybe, the hope of the uncut diamond.
Yet now that possibility had become the present, real, alive, and diamond-bright.
She loved him. It was so obvious, so overwhelming, she was amazed she hadn’t realised it before. Now, gazing unseeingly at her father, she felt it resonate through her body, vibrate in her bones.
So this is what love feels like, she thought. This is what it feels like to know why you were made, who you are.
It felt right. It felt whole.
‘Kalila?’ Bahir prompted her gently. ‘It is too late for regrets now, I know that well. I only speak of this now because I want you to be happy and I hope—pray—that happiness can still be found with Zakari.’
Kalila blinked; it took a moment for her father’s words to penetrate. They sank into her slowly, coldly, taking away that wonderful, resonating warmth of her earlier realisation.
For a moment her love for Aarif had made her strong, happy, whole. Then truth dawned, stark and unrelenting. It didn’t matter what she felt for Aarif, because she would still marry Zakari. She must, even if he didn’t want to marry her.
Even if…
A new, sudden, impossible thought bloomed in her, buoyed her spirits. What if Zakari didn’t want to marry her? He had professed so little interest in her so far; what if he would be grateful for a reprieve?
What if she was free?
Her father was staring at her, Kalila realised, his eyes narrowed speculatively. She forced herself to smile. ‘Thank you, Father, for your words. I too hope to find happiness.’ She left it at that, although she almost felt as if her father could hear her thoughts, read her heart.
Happiness that could be found only with Aarif.
She didn’t see Aarif for the rest of that day, swept away as she was by preparations for the wedding. Her wedding dress, originally belonging to her mother, had to be tried on before a gaggle of appreciative women, and the resident seamstress came to make last-minute and, Kalila thought, unnecessary alterations.
She was surrounded by people now, chattering, laughing women, and after two weeks of virtual isolation she felt stifled, crowded, needing air and space. And Aarif. Every time she walked down a corridor or by a window, her gaze sought him out. She longed to see him, those dark, knowing eyes, that flickering smile, the scar that swept his cheek and reminded her of the sacrifices he’d made every day of his life, to rectify a mistake that wasn’t even really his.
Aarif, however, seemed determined to keep his distance, for she didn’t even catch a glimpse of him. The morning before the wedding, she was led to the palace’s ancient women’s quarters with its private baths for a ceremonial washing. Kalila let herself be carried along by the women’s buoyant spirits and happy chattering, even though she felt as if she were separated from it all, isolated in her own bubble of apprehension and hope.
She needed to see Aarif. She needed to talk to him, explain.
She needed to tell him she loved him.
Her heart bumped against her ribs and her mouth turned bone-dry at the thought of offering such a private revelation. She remembered his words, so callous and contemptuous, that night in the desert: you’re thinking you’ve fallen in love with me.
But I have, she thought now, desperately, yet still clinging to that one shred of hope. I have.
The women’s baths were something out of an Arabian Nights tale: a sunken tub the size of a small swimming pool, fragrant with rose petals and seething with foam. Kalila allowed herself to be undressed and led to the tub, allowed her hair to be washed three times with a heavy clay that felt like mud on her scalp before it was rinsed with rosewater.
The wedding was to be Western in style, so the women forewent the ceremonial hennaing of Kalila’s hands and feet, slipping her instead into a white linen robe before leading her back to her room.
The heavy, cloying scents of perfumes and soap, the high-pitched giggles and provocative murmurs, the entire strangeness of it all made Kalila suddenly feel dizzy, and as they were leaving the baths she took a step back.
‘Juhanah…have them go on without me. I need a moment.’
Juhanah’s face softened into sympathy and she nodded. ‘A moment, then, ya daanaya. But then you must come. This is your wedding preparation—’ her voice lowered for only Kalila’s ears ‘—even if you don’t wish it.’
With her bustling sense of authority, Juhanah rounded up the other women and led them back to Kalila’s rooms. Kalila sagged against the cool stone wall and closed her eyes, grateful for the silence and solitude.
I can’t do this.
She opened her eyes; had she spoken aloud? She was uncomfortably aware of her still-damp skin, her pounding heart. Tomorrow she would marry Zakari; tomorrow night she would give herself to him.
The thought made bile rise in her throat and she tasted its metallic tang on her tongue.
I can’t do this.
Her only hope was to talk to Aarif, yet with each hour slipping towards sunset she realised how unlikely such an opportunity would be. And then it would be too late.
Too late for her, for Aarif, for Zakari. For happiness, for hope. For love.
She swallowed and pushed herself away from the wall, her feet moving in slow, leaden steps back towards her room, and her destiny.
As she came around the latticed corner of the baths her heart seemed to leap into her throat before stopping completely for there, right in front of her, was Aarif.
Aarif stared at Kalila in both shock and hunger. His eyes roved over her figure clad only in a light robe; he could see the shadowed valley between her breasts, the flat plane of her navel—
He jerked his gaze upwards and strove for a word. A thought.
Yet what could he say? How could he excuse his presence in the women’s private bathing quarters, except to admit that he had been lurking, spying like David on Bathsheba?
He’d been wandering the palace for hours, his thoughts in torment, his soul in anguish. He couldn’t work; he couldn’t even think. His mind—and heart—were controlled by Kalila, by images of her with him as they’d been that night in the desert—and then terrible, painful images of her with Zakari, as his bride, his queen.
She’s mine.
But she wasn’t, Aarif had told himself again and again. She was most certainly not his; she was forbidden, as forbidden and dangerous as Bathsheba, and he was as drawn to her as David had been.
If he were Zakari, Aarif thought with a sudden, savage bitterness, he wouldn’t have let her out of his sight. If he were Zakari, he would cherish her for ever.
But he wasn’t.
‘Aarif…’ Her voice sounded thready, and she stopped, simply staring at him as he was at her, their eyes devouring one another, as intimate and heady as a caress even though neither of them moved or touched.
Aarif opened his mouth, but not a word came out. All he could think of doing was snatching her into his arms, crushing her to him, breathing in the sweet scent of her hair, her skin—
‘I’m sorry,’ he finally said, his voice rasping. Her eyes widened, and he realised just how many things he had to be sorry for. ‘I shouldn’t be here. I thought the women had left.’
Her fingers curled around the sash of her robe as if it were a lifeline. ‘Were you looking for me?’
‘No.’ He spoke harshly. He had to. There was no time for hope now. It was too late; it had always been too late. He swallowed down all the words he wanted to say, the professions, the promises. Pointless. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, and backed a step away.
‘Aarif…’ There was so much hunger and need in that voice, that one word. His name. So much striving and hope and desperation. If she spoke again, Aarif knew he would break. He would lose control, and he would take her into his arms and damn the consequences. To them all.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, and his voice broke; he heard it, felt it and knew that something inside him was breaking too, cracking apart and tearing him asunder and there was nothing he could do about it. Shaking his head, he turned and walked hurriedly away.
The moon was a pale sickle of silver in the sky when Kalila crept out of her bedroom. It was well after midnight, and the palace had settled softly into sleep.
The darkness felt like a living thing, soft and velvety, wrapping her in anonymity as she crept along the corridor. Her palms were slick and her heart was beating so loudly she felt it roaring in her ears, seeming to echo through the endless hallway as she made her way to Aarif’s bedroom.